


Your Faded Arrangements

by ukiyo91



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, War Vet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 13:39:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1552403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ukiyo91/pseuds/ukiyo91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonny returns from war and everything is the same, but isn’t. Over the course of a summer, Patrick helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Faded Arrangements

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the-northface for beta-ing. 
> 
> Title comes from the poem "Jesse James Days" by Kai Carlson-Wee
> 
> I have very rudimentary knowledge of army ranks and PTSD, so obviously things are embellished and altered for the purposes of fic. Jonny's experience and injuries are solely fictional constructs.

“If I called to you now. If I carried your name to the skateparks

and railroad temples of rust, would you come to me, brother,

wherever you are in your faded arrangements,

your growing away from the past? Would you lie with me here

in the shore-grass, watching the college boys paint

the gazebo, the endless advance and retreat of the sea?”

 

***********

**  
** Jonny comes home and everything is the same, but isn’t.

There’s a new general store, where O’Mally’s used to be. The owner, Donna, is all smiles and a thick New York State accent as she welcomes him in. When she learns who his mother is, she insists on giving him the milk for free.

“Andree’s been so wonderful, showing me around town and helping the business get traffic.”

Jonny nods and takes his milk and as he turns around he sees a young man stocking cereal by the far side of the store. He tenses, kicking himself for not noticing his surroundings and gives the man a surreptitious once over. He’s blond and has curls and looks bored. The man turns his head and meets Jonny’s gaze, holding it for a minute. He looks curious, then interested and Jonny registers the foreignness of his features. He thought he had known pretty much everyone in his town.

“Oh, Jonny, this is my son Patrick.” Donna says, and Patrick nods once, gaze inscrutable.

“He's heading to school in the fall on a hockey scholarship!”

Patrick blushes and busies himself with the cereal and Jonny nods once, hoping he looks interested.

He takes the long way home, trailing through the woods he and Dave used to play in as kids. He was a soldier from a young age, his mother will tell anyone. He liked to reconstruct great battles, fashioning himself a sword out of sticks and making Dave or his other friends act out the attack of the enemy. In those games, he always played the leader, the captain, who took on the responsibility with a somber duty. It used to stress him out more than please him. He wanted everything to go right: the battle of Agincourt should always be performed in the rain, the Union always holds fast and waits for the enemy to strike first, the trenches should be manned in proper cycles.

Surprisingly, not too many friends stuck around.

But Jonny was never very social, anyway. It was the theory, really, that interested him. Why do people make the decisions they do? How do people perceive the past, especially when one considers that history is written by the victors? He was fascinated by the idea that the tides of battles shift on a dime, the result of one single action that has unforeseen ramifications. As much as he wanted to go out and do, he also fascinated by his impulse to fight. It made him an introspective, quiet teenager.

The army is not made for introspective, quiet teenagers. That was his first lesson, really. They had taken one look at him, a newly minted Private Machine-Gunner and had called him Captain Serious. This name had stuck for years, through his promotions to Private First Class and Specialist. It had never been his goal to be promoted, but he liked the responsibilities of his position.

Until he got a leg full of shrapnel.

But nine months of physical therapy is nothing, not really.

Jonny breaths in. The air is cooler here, wetter, and infused with the smell of loamy earth. How many times had he recalled this, a Tuesday morning in New England after a rainy night, while he was in the desert? Too many times, probably. The idea of home had been a fixed point during some of the hardest months abroad, but now that he’s back, it feels as foreign as the other side of the world.

****

His days pass. He gets up at dawn and stretches his leg, and tries runs for a couple of miles, until he is gasping, leg sore and still too weak. Breakfast, then he goes to the library and stares at his application to colleges. His mother had suggested that he think about it, and Jonny does out of half-guilty obligation. He can’t seem to think of a life on a campus, with people who are happy and carefree, but he fills applications out anyway, selecting schools in cities where there’s a lot of history. He’d like to study that, maybe.

He also picks things up at the Kane’s general store. Patrick rings him up one time, when they’re the only two people around. Patrick has a bruise on his face, which he sheepishly explains is from a street hockey game gone wrong. “Got to keep my skills sharp,” he explains, and waits, like he’s waiting for Jonny to say something in return.

Jonny doesn’t say anything, only stares at the smudge of blue and purple under his eye, against his pale skin. He wonders if it’s tender.

“Have a nice day.” Patrick prompts, holding out the bag with a raised eyebrow and Jonny mumbles his reply, leaving without looking back.

***

When he dreams, he’s back in the desert and it’s hot, hotter than he remembered it being. He feels like he’s boiling in his gear, drowning in his sweat. The guys are laughing about something, but Jonny doesn’t get the joke. He hates that feeling, and he feels impotent and angry. He takes out his gun and shoots the soldier nearest to him, and the laughter doesn’t stop. It doesn’t stop even after he’s killed everyone on his squad. It doesn’t stop even after he’s pointed the gun on himself and shoots.

Jonny wakes, and he’s still too warm. The AC’s broken and he’s drenched, the covers twisted around his body. His dream, half remembered, makes his heart throb in his chest and he hastily gets up.

It’s nearly 4am, but Jonny puts on his sweatpants and heads outside. It’s the humidity that gets people at this hour, but Jonny doesn’t mind. He starts off at a good pace, letting his body wake up gradually. He ignores the ache of his leg, a persistent throb that he’s learned to live with.

His usual path takes him a couple of streets down over by the woods and he likes to let himself get lost amongst the trails for a little bit. But today he does something different, taking a right by the post office and heading down to the lake. The waters are still, peppered briefly here and there by the splash of a fish. It’s oddly soothing to watch as Jonny runs the mile stretch around the perimeter.

Up ahead he hears the snap of a branch, and he sharpens his gaze, body tensing as he sees a figure coming towards him, jogging slower and with a bit more panting. As he gets closer, Jonny recognizes the blond hair. It’s Patrick, and he looks at Jonny at that moment, brow furrowing in surprise before he smiles tiredly and slows.

Jonny feels obliged to slow down too, although he’d rather not. It will take a while to build up that pace again. But, oddly, he wants to be polite.

“Toews,” Patrick nods, jogging in place about three feet away. Jonny notices the distance absently, wondering if it’s an arbitrary number, or maybe Patrick’s wary of him. He has a right to be, he supposes, especially after the earlier non-communication. Patrick glances down and Jonny knows he’s looking at his leg, the scarring thick and ugly and still sore, even after all this time.

Jonny wants him to stop looking, and says, rather stupidly, “I didn’t know you ran.”

Patrick shrugs, but hides his surprise admirably. His face is pretty expressive, Jonny notes. Like he always wants to smile. He would have fit in well with the squad; they always liked a guy who could smile and break the tension.

“It’s a new regimen,” Patrick explains, and the silence hangs between them for a few awkward moments. Jonny doesn’t know if he should reply, or maybe ask another question. Patrick does the work for him, following up, “I figure I should work up some stamina. Conditioning is a bitch and I don’t want to come to training camp unprepared.”

It takes Jonny a moment to recall that Patrick’s heading off to school in the fall. Sometimes he looks older than he is, especially when he’s not talking and looking at Jonny across the counter. But once he opens his mouth, his whole body changes, becoming loose and fidgety, hands gesturing, curls bouncing.

Jonny feels old, even though he’s twenty five. He’s felt old for a while now.

He doesn’t know if he should continue the conversation, since what can he say? Running is good exercise? He does it to forgot, just for a moment, that his leg was fucked up and some shit went down in Iraq? So he stays silent, and he watches the expectation leak from Patrick’s expression, becoming resigned.

“Alright, man, well, have a good run.” And he waves, a small one, and is off.

Jonny doesn’t turn around to watch him, instead carrying on, pushing himself until he can’t anymore.

***

He sees Patrick again two days later, after another dream leaves Jonny wet-faced and gasping.

His mom sends him down to grab some ingredients for blueberry pie, Johnny's favorite. It’s hot and sticky out, one of those cicada summers, and he can hear their cacophonous roar as he takes a shortcut through the forest. It takes him through to where the back of the general store is, and over the sound of the insects he can hear a persistent thumping noise, rhythmic and loud. For a second Jonny freezes, hearing the memory of a gun’s recoil, and he needs to take a breath before he can keep going, keeping his footsteps light as his training takes over, moving forward until he can spy the side of the building.

Edging closer he continues to hear the loud thunk of something small hitting something big and he rounds the corner to find Patrick Kaner, sweaty and red-faced, hitting a small ball against the side of a trash container with a hockey stick. His white shirt is soaked, sticking to his back, and he wears a backwards cap on his head.

He’s focused, Jonny notices, completely unaware of anything that’s happening beyond him. The container has a chalk outline of a goalie, with X’s to mark the the five holes. He watches Patrick concentrate, taking aim, before flicking his wrist--the stick barely drags against the ground, the puck lifting effortlessly into the top right slot.

Jonny clears his throat and Patrick whips around, eyes wide. When he sees it’s Jonny, he relaxes, smiling, a bit of sunburn forming across the bridge of his nose.

“Hey, man, you scared me.” Patrick reaches down for a bottle of water, takes off his cap, and dumps half of the liquid his over his head, blonde curls turning darker as water streams down onto his neck and shoulders. Patrick shivers, a full-body shake like a dog would make, and Jonny feels a tiny splash of either sweat or water land on his arm. He resists the urge to wipe at it.

When Jonny doesn’t say anything, Patrick’s smile fades a little bit into wariness and he seems torn between ignoring him altogether or doing something else, Jonny doesn’t know what. Instead he extends the arm holding the hockey stick and cocks his head to the side.

“Want to try?”

Jonny hasn’t used a hockey stick since eighth grade, when he played in the after school league in the winters. He’s not sure if Patrick is mocking him or not, but suddenly the thought of hitting something seems really appealing.

He nods, reaching out and taking the stick from Patrick’s hand. Patrick smiles, eyes unreadable, and moves back a bit, letting Jonny position himself a good couple of yards away, steadying the ball in front of him and moving it back and forth a couple of times, letting himself feel the weight of it against his stick, calculating in his mind the trajectory needed to reach the upper-right, eyes fixed on the X. His form is off, he knows. His superiors would yell at him, make him stand perfectly over and over until it was second nature. But Patrick doesn’t say anything, just watches him silently while he lines up.

But Jonny’s always had good aim, and he snaps the stick, perhaps too aggressively, but the ball sails up and hits the X and Jonny feels inexplicably proud of himself.

Patrick whistles softly, and he’s smiling when Jonny turns back to him. “Awesome, dude. That was sick.”

Jonny nods, resisting a grin, and hands Patrick back his stick, saying, “Thanks,” lowly.

“Want to go again?” Patrick’s eyebrows are raised and his face, open, makes Jonny pause. He thinks of his mom, waiting for some sugar and eggs. He thinks of his cool, dark bedroom, where he can nap and dream about the desert and try to hold himself together. He thinks of going running again, close to the lake where he can look at and feel all alone, like there’s no one else in the entire world but him.

But there’s Patrick. Patrick, who’s got a bright future and practices shooting pucks behind his mom’s shop, wants him to stick around for a little while, and he feels himself nodding.

They take turns shooting, Jonny feeling loose and more connected to his body than he has in a while. Patrick keeps up a steady stream of chatter, seemingly not minding that Jonny doesn’t say much back, beyond a few grunts of acknowledgement. He talks about his sisters and how they forbade him from practicing at him because he makes too much noise, about the fact that he’s heading off to UMASS Amherst, in the States, to play hockey with the Minutemen, about the fact that his family moved to Buffalo last summer because a friend of a friend wanted to sell his business and, well, it’s not so bad here. Not as cold as he expected, that’s for sure.

Patrick doesn’t ask Jonny about the military, or what he’s been doing the last few years, or what he’s thinking of doing now. It’s a relief from the persistent questions he usually gets, so he doesn’t mind letting Patrick keep talking.

Eventually they move from hitting balls against the trash container to lining up empty beer bottles and trying to knock them down. Jonny doesn’t do so well as Patrick, to the latter’s glee.

“Man, you were so good I was starting to feel a little nervous,” he jokes, and at that Jonny starts to feel his pride swell, the old cockiness that had gotten him promoted at such a young age making him stand taller, feel wider about the shoulders.

“Maybe you should feel nervous,” He tells Patrick, not sure if he’s going for deadpan or not, but Patrick takes it as so, grinning and narrowing his eyes in challenge.

“You think you’re tough shit, huh? Okay, if you can hit all of them I’ll buy you lunch or something. I’m in the mood to ruin my nutrition plan.”

Jonny agrees, feeling a gnaw of hunger in his chest, and a different kind of hunger too--wanting to be the best again, to be number one at something. So what if Patrick has fifteen years of experience and a college scholarship behind him. Jonny’s never backed down from a challenge, not once.

He knocks down eight out of ten. Not his best, not by a long shot, but it settles something within him. Patrick, clearly not expecting to get that far, looks far too impressed and tells him so.

“Dude, we definitely could have used you on our team. Come on, I’m buying you lunch anyway. Burgers on me, but don’t order anything fancy. I only have fifteen bucks.”  

They head to the diner on Main Street, which has crappy AC, so not many people are inside. The get cheeseburgers and shakes, which they down ravenously.

Patrick leans back, patting his stomach contentedly. “So what do you do around here, now that you’re back?”

“Not too much,” Jonny replies, thinking about his daily run, his daily nap, his daily cursory search of the internet for schools to apply to.

“Well, you should totally come and train with me sometime. I work out at the gym up by Boyle Street about three days a week when I’m not working at my parent’s store. A group of guys also have a pickup game at the rink the next town over--we each fork over about five bucks for two hours every Wednesday night. Interested?”

Jonny doesn’t know how to reply--Patrick’s overture of friendship seems foreign but not entirely unwelcome. The idea of doing something with a team again appeals to him more than he’d like to admit.

He thinks of his leg, and the way he had screamed with pain when he had woken up in the hospital. It hurts when he overdoes it, but he wants to keep pushing, to see where he ends up.

So he nods, and Patrick looks pleased, flushed with sweat and a drop of chocolate milkshake lingering at the corner of his mouth. Jonny forces himself not to stare, instead tosses some singles Patrick’s way for the tip.

Patrick absently holds the door for him as they leave, and the simple kindness of it strikes him....

***

When he tells his mom about the hockey, she looks concerned.

“Jonny, but your leg...” She doesn’t disapprove, but there’s something in her eyes, dark and often inscrutable like his own, that catches him.

“The doctors said I could still be athletic, I just had to know my own limits. And I do.”

She doesn’t say anything, but squeezes her lips together. Jonny remembers the way she looked for those weeks in the hospital, like he was some creature brought in out of the wild, like the stray cats that used to wander around in the backyard. He would snap at her, everyone, filled with nothing but bitterness and a rage so familiar to him it was like an old friend. If he could have nothing else, he’d keep that anger, use it as a shield against whatever would come next.

Except, nothing came next. Just bedrest, and conversations with a soft-spoken hospital therapist who had asked him to talk about the desert, about his friends, about how he could translate his anger into something useful, something productive.

Well, hockey’s productive. He tells his mom this and she sighs.

“Just be careful, _mon chere_.”

He agrees, thinks about Patrick’s challenging stare, and feels something bloom in his chest. He knows it’s anticipation.

When he dreams that night, it’s the same desert tableau, the same muted shouts of his team and the whistle-like ringing in his ears that grows louder and louder until it’s all Jonny can do to bash his head against a rock to end it, end it all. But then it stops, and he looks up into blue eyes, and gasps himself awake.

*******

Patrick’s friends turned out a include a couple of guys from high school, guys Jonny had never really hung out with much. THey had remembered him too, watchful and questioning but overall kind, ribbing him gently for being the rookie.

They place him on the third line, so he didn’t get as many minutes. A part of him had wants to bristle, because fuck his leg, but he can see that these guys took the game seriously. Hockey was a lot like the army, in it’s own way: you fell into line and played the role you were ordered to, covering for your team when needed, being an asset in the clutch. He can tell Patrick was born for this sport, the way it comes so naturally to him. For all that he was slight, the top of his head only coming up to Jonny’s chin, he’s swift and deadly accurate with the puck. Their goalie, a guy who had been in Jonny’s freshman English class, barely stands a chance.

Afterwards they all lay outside on the grass, chugging Gatorade and shooting the shit, and it’s almost like being back in the desert, making reference to intricately layered inside jokes and teasing the guys who had girlfriends back home. Jonny had never contributed to the latter conversation, not even after it was okay to do so.

He watches as Patrick shifts from the mature, determined player he was on the ice to the eighteen year old he really is. Jonny had forgotten he was so young; their interactions had always been permeated with a kind of quietly restfulness that he had associated with much older comrades. But Jonny realizes that Patrick’s merely comfortable in his skin, and why wouldn’t he be? His body obeys his every move, he’s quick with a joke and laughs free and easy. It makes something sharp tug in Jonny’s chest.

Patrick had driven him home afterwards. It had been close to 8pm, but the sky was still lit, with the kind of muted blue that made things feel softer around the edges. They had opened the windows and let the cool breeze in, Patrick screwing with the radio in his beat-up Corolla until he found a country music station, shooting an amused look when Jonny had scoffed.

“You had fun?” Patrick had asked, after ten minutes of companionable silence.

Jonny considered it for a moment, memories overlapping and the steady, throbbing ache in his leg a constant reminder of where he wasn’t. But this was truly the first time in ages that he felt something close to happy, so he nodded, replied “yeah,” quietly.

“That’s good! I guess, I mean, you looked happy. And I know I don’t really know you that well, but, like, I don’t think I’ve seen you smile once since we met.”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Patrick looking hesitant, but he lets himself smile, lets Patrick see it.

Patrick replies by humming loudly along with the radio as they travel back into town.

When Jonny gets back to his house, he feels sore and satisfied. His leg aches, the muscles cramping uncomfortably, but Jonny is reminded of basic training, the repetitive motions that were meant to instill familiarity with one’s body. He takes an ice pack out of the freezer and pops a couple of ibuprofen and trudges up to his bedroom, draping himself across the bed and letting the day wash over him, in hazy vignettes.

It’s still early enough in the summer that the sun’s still out, washing his bedroom in a golden glow. Closing his eyes, Jonny listens to the solid thump of his heart. It relaxes him, counting the beats, an easy, repetitive task that lulls him into a doze.

Overhead a plane goes by, too loud and too sudden, and Jonny’s eyes snap open. For a moment, he’s back over there, and he can’t tell if the aircraft belongs to them or not. His muscles seize up, and his leg begins to ache again. When he gets his bearings he realizes he’s curled up into a ball at the side of his bed, braced in the fetal position. It’s useless, he knows. In a real warzone, things like hiding don’t do shit. He knows this from personal experience.

***

He doesn’t wait until the following Wednesday to see Patrick again. He wakes up, does his stretching and takes some ibuprofen before heading out.

He finds Patrick stocking Campbell’s soup, loud music coming from earbuds attached to an ipod clipped to his apron. Jonny waits until he’s noticed, eyeing the swell of Patrick’s biceps against the soft-looking cloth of his henley. It’s cooler today, but the air conditioning in the store is on max, and Jonny feels goosebumps break out along his exposed arms.

“Hey, man!” Patrick’s smiling, and Jonny grins back like it’s easy.

He waits around for Patrick’s shift to be over, about twenty minutes. Patrick cajoles him into helping out, directing him to the canned tuna and instructing him to move his lazy ass and set them on a shelf.

They make small talk, mostly recycling jokes from the other day. When Mrs. Kane gives them the nod, they head out, meandering around Main Street. They grab Cokes and a bag of chips from the General Store and sit down on the little patch of grass that the town calls a park. They munch together for a bit, before Patrick asks if Jonny’s thinking of playing with them again next week.

“Yeah, I want to.”

“Good,” Patrick replies.

They’re silent for a while, listening to the cicadas whine and feeling the breeze, cool and welcome, over their tired bodies. Summer feels like a physical weight, a force pressing down on Jonny’s body. But comforting, like the old handmade quilt his Nana made for the family, that his Mom would drape over him when he was sick or sulking.

The comfort lulls him, makes him feel like answering, honestly, when Patrick asks, “Did you get hurt? Is that why you had to leave?”

Jonny swallows, remembering pain, remembering darkness. “My leg. Some shrapnel hit the absolute worst place, and then it got infected.  I was lucky it didn’t need to get cut off. But I needed a lot of work.”

“Shit.” Silence, and then, “I didn’t mean to, you know, push you--with the sports stuff, I mean. If you were in pain--”

Jonny cuts him off. “It’s not so bad. I’m building my strength back up, and I see someone for PT a couple of times a month. But,” Jonny doesn’t want to speak the words aloud, doesn’t want to even think them; but they’ve been building up inside of him for weeks, for months. “I’d be a liability in the field. I couldn’t go back after that. My career in the Army’s over.”

“But you’re sure it’s cool...” Patrick gestures at his leg and Jonny doesn’t let himself get defensive.

“I know my limits.” He repeats, and it feels like for the umpteenth time. But Patrick just shrugs and changes the subject.

He can tell Patrick’s grasping for words, maybe platitudes, and it suddenly makes him angry. He doesn’t need to hear that, not from Patrick, who’s been the only one to see him and not pity him since he’s gotten back.

But instead:  “Well, at least you can play hockey.”

Jonny chokes out a laugh. because it’s true. It’s something he can do, and remarkably, it cuts through all the bullshit Jonny’s been dealing with. Patrick doesn’t look at what he can’t do, but what he can instead succeed at.

“Some of the guys remembered you from high school, said you were probably the most serious kid they knew. Did you play a lot of sports?”

“No, mostly cross country. I knew I wanted to go into the army, so I trained by myself privately. Did weight lifting and conditioning work in my garage.”

“Dude, that’s so hardcore.” Patrick looks impressed, and stuffs a wad of Doritos in his mouth, chewing noisily before continuing, “So, you knew you wanted to do that for a while?”

“Do what?”

“The army.”

“Oh, yeah.” Jonny stops to think about it, and says “I wanted to go as soon as I could so I enlisted right out of high school. I had just been promoted to Specialist when I got hurt--that means I managed other enlisted soldiers. It was relatively low-ranking, but I was working my way up the ladder.”

“I’m sure you kicked ass at it, I mean your whole personality just screams discipline.”

Jonny cracks a smile. Patrick’s squinting from the sun, his cap on backwards and apparently forgotten. “They called me Captain Serious. It was a dubious honor.”

“Dude, I don’t even know what dubious means but it sounds like you were with a cool pack of guys.” 

Jonny thinks of them: eyes covered by aviators and hair bleached from the sun and smiles a mile wide when they thought they could pull one over on a senior officer. He wonders where they are now.

“I was.” He replies simply.

Patrick takes a drag from his can. He burps, then asks, “So what are you doing now?”

Jonny shrugs. “Nothing, really. My mom wants me to apply to school, but I have no fucking clue what I want to do.”

Patrick hums, apparently thinking it over. “You could be a gym teacher, whipping the next generation of brats into shape or something.”

“Nah, I’ll let that be your job when you retire from hockey.”

Patrick laughs. “Yeah, no, I’ll never retire. I’ll just keep playing, like Jagr or Lemiux. And if I do stop playing, I’ll buy the team or something.”

“What team would you want to play for? The Sabres?”

“Fuck no.” Patrick blurts, and then looks sheepish. “I mean, I know it’s your hometown team and all, but I can do better than that.”

“So what then, the Bruins? You’re going to UMASS, right?”

“Yeah, I guess. This’ll sound weird and all, but they’re already doing really well. I want to go to a team where I can really make a difference, you know? Like, be that missing piece that makes everything better.”

“And that’s not the Sabres?” Jonny asks wryly.

“Honestly, I’m thinking more like Minnesota or Carolina, or even Chicago.”

“You know you don’t get a choice, right? And you still have to do the whole college hockey thing.”

Patrick brushes him off, making a face. “I know I’m good enough for Juniors or something like that. The college part was really for my parents--I’d be the first Kane to attend, you know?”

Jonny didn’t know, and he doesn’t mention his lack of surprise. But Patrick continues: “They were like, what if you get injured and things don’t work out, don’t you want a backup plan? And my whole thinking is that life shouldn’t be about back-up plans, you know?”

Jonny does know. And from the look on Patrick’s face, he realizes that at about the same instance.

“Shit, I mean...that was dumb. I’m sorry.”

Normally, Jonny would get defensive, maybe think that Patrick was pitying him or something. But Patrick seems guileless, seems to hold within himself that kind of bountiful and almost ignorant optimism that so many recruits carry with themselves into training camp. Like nothing will ever happen to them. Jonny had felt that way, once upon a time.

“Don’t be sorry,” Jonny tells him. “You’re right, anyway. Shit happens, and you don’t always prepare for it. But you can’t go around thinking the worst is going to happen anyway.”

Patrick nods, eyeing him carefully.

They finish the bag of chips, their cans of soda. It’s a touch warmer now, and Jonny feels drowsy. Next to him, Patrick lays down on the grass, closing his eyes. Jonny can’t decide if he wants to lay down too, or if he’s going to maintain his position. He’s still deliberating when he hears Patrick say: “I’m glad you decided to play, the other day. You’re pretty good, for a newbie.”

Jonny doesn’t take offence. He’s pretty glad too.

***

A couple weeks go by, and Jonny sees Patrick more often than not. He works some of his PT into their training sessions, Patrick lifting weights and and Jonny doing careful stretches, working the scar tissue into something workable.

Hockey continues to be good for him, in ways he didn’t expect. The routine of it jogs something back into place, makes his mornings a little more bearable, gets him out of the house most days. His Mom’s gotten over her initial hesitance too, offering to make snacks for their games. She likes Patrick, always fawns over him when he comes over.

Which he does, a lot. That’s another thing about hockey: it comes with Patrick. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Either way, when he sees Patrick he feels motivated, ready to be active. He associates Patrick with movement, with quick smiles and an easy camaraderie. Friendship has never been this easy for Jonny. Even his conversations with his brother, taken place over the phone while David is at training camp for the soccer program at his school don’t carry the same rhythm as his exchanges with Patrick.

They jog together in the mornings, taking the same route around the community lake. This early, the place is usually deserted, so sometimes they end their run by stripping off their clothes and splashing around in the water for a while.

They’re both tan from the sun, and Jonny feels like he’s packed on more muscle then he’s seen in a while. His body feels like his own again, feels powerful and controlled. Patrick’s preternatural grace in constantly on display, even as he slides through the water. Jonny thinks he’ll make a fucking amazing hockey player, and holds back the ache in his gut.

It’s July.

On this day, four and a half weeks since he first met Patrick, they lay on the sand together as the world around them wakes up. It’s six am, and Jonny closes his eyes to listen to the world wake up around them. It’s harder and harder to remember what it smelled like, in the desert. Harder to recall the rough weight of his uniform, or the taste of stale MREs.

Instead, he’s intimately aware of the ground underneath his body, of the wind passing over his lake-cooled skin. Of Patrick, beside him, as constant a presence as though he had always been near him. He could fall asleep like this, Jonny thinks, and doesn’t fight it.

But Patrick speaks, and Jonny listens.

“Did you have a girlfriend before you left? Or do you think you’ll get one now that you’re back?’

Jonny hesitates before answering. He came in before everything was repealed, but in many ways, even after, things remained the same. You didn’t look at your fellow soldiers like that, so Jonny never did. His desires, he realizes, were more complex than sex. His need for companionship, for people around him, was more tied to a longing to feel like they all were alive. Hands on his shoulder, across his back or on his head, satisfied something inside of him like no touch to the cock had before. He’d had one encounter, a week before he had left home, but how could that compare to the implicit trust in his teammates’ eyes?

But now, looking over at Patrick, his tanned, freckled skin and full lips, he wonders.

“Don’t ask,” he replies, simply.

Silence. And then, “I won’t tell.” And then, even quieter: “If you won’t.”

Jonny closes his eyes. The hum of a sunny afternoon, the sound echoing the pleasant thrum in his chest. Patrick leans against him, tracing patterns on his bare chest, making him shiver. He rolls over on top of Patrick, watching as his hooded stare darkens and he licks pink lips.

Jonny wants. It’s visceral in a way that’s almost shocking to his system, as if his body has jolted awake from a deep sleep. He leans down, doesn’t go in for the kiss but instead takes Patrick’s bottom lip between his teeth and presses, gently, then more firm as Patrick squirms against him, and Jonny bites down harder, pleased when Patrick relaxes after a moment. He licks the sting of it away, and presses his tongue against the seam of his lips--braced on top of Patrick, using his arms to prop himself up, his tongue is the only part of Jonny touching Patrick, and it’s unbearably erotic.

Patrick lets him him, and he sweeps inside of his mouth, muscles burning slightly at the sustained posture. The sense of  control grounds him and Patrick’s pliancy makes him ache.

Around them, the world continues to awaken, and so does Jonny.

***

It’s a new addition to their routine, to join Patrick every morning to jog, and then to spend time not jogging.

Patrick kisses direct and clean, lips on lips, soft and sure. Jonny likes that he’s so confident. It makes things refreshingly straightforward, when he corners Patrick in the locker room before they head on the ice, waiting for the footsteps of their buddies to fade before placing his mouth on Patrick’s neck, the slice of skin left bare between his helmet and his jersey. It’s worth it when Patrick shivers, then answers him in turn after their game, climbing over his lap in the car and taking Jonny apart with his hands.

It’s August, and Jonny’s never felt more content. It’s August, and Patrick leaves in three weeks.

He doesn’t let himself think about the latter. For the first time in his life, he lets himself belong in the present. They play hockey, they work out, they take long walks and swim in the lake, and they move together seamlessly and perfectly.

Patrick takes him to meet his family officially. His parents are active, chatty people, much like their son. His sisters are tanned and smiling and ready with a quick joke. At first, Jonny wants to flee; the noise and general rhythm of this household so different to his own.

But Kanes are a persistent bunch, and Jonny finds himself relaxing, smiling and cracking jokes of his own. Patrick giggles ridiculously whenever he does so, convinced that Jonny’s deadpan is the greatest thing known to man.

Patrick’s Dad admires him, says he considered enlisting before he married his wife. But they respectfully don’t ask about what happened, which Jonny appreciates, even though his leg is doing better than ever, and the sting of his disappointment isn’t so severe.

Instead, they talk about Patrick. Erica, his sister, is also gearing up to start applying to college, and ribbs him about dorm life and gaining the freshman fifteen.

Mrs. Kane is just plain thrilled that her son is attending school, and she ruminates out loud about the classes he could take. Psychology is brought up, then nixed for Biology. Jackie jokingly suggests Art History, which earns a round of laughs.

Jonny can picture Patrick at school: surrounded by people, obviously. Even when he gets Patrick alone, he always feels as though Patrick’s personality, his heart, contains multitudes. He pictures Patrick playing hockey for thousands of fans, and the boy down the hall who will inevitably share a class with him, who will invite him for coffee. He pictures Patrick forgetting about the quiet army guy from back home who he hooked up with one summer.

Jonny doesn’t want to think anymore. After dessert, he drags Patrick towards the outer perimeter of their expansive backyard, where a cluster of trees provide shade. Above them is a treehouse left behind by the previous owner, planks of wood nailed into the bark to let them climb up. Jonny leads, and Patrick follows.

It’s not a bad construction, overall. The treehouse is roomy enough that Jonny can spread Patrick out along the floor.  Patrick makes this happy noise, like he can’t understand where this is coming from. Jonny thumps a knee down between Patrick’s, dragging him towards him, one hand clenched in Patrick’s shirt front, the other closing around the back of his head, digging into his hair. Patrick’s breath huffs against his lips, sloppy as they move to his cheek, and uses his hands to haul Jonny right onto him, pinning Patrick to the floor.

Jonny’s hand grips his jaw, fingers pressing into the pale flesh, hot against his own fevered palms. “Pat,” he grunts, kissing him once, twice, and again in swift little attacks.

Patrick groans, tearing his mouth away from Jonny’s to pant, “Fuck, Jonny. All fucking day.”

Everything is hazy and overheated and Jonny wants too much of everything all at once, wants to gorge himself on Patrick, his mouth, his skin, the brightly shocked laughter that spills from his lips as Jonny smooths his hands down his abdomen, slipping underneath the elastic band around his waist, edging between his legs.

“Fuck, this is a fucking kid’s treehouse, we can’t,” Patrick keens as Jonny takes him into his hand, moving slightly against the restrictions of denim.

But Jonny doesn’t care. The heat, the intimacy of the moment coalesces into something absolutely needy in his gut. It makes him want to keep Patrick down there, never let him up. He wrings a shocked keening noise from Patrick when he leans over to take his cock into his mouth, running his tongue along the underside, tasting warm skin. Patrick’s body is terrain familiar to him by now. He dreams of his eyes and his smiles, instead of dessert and pain. He wants Patrick to need him that much, wants him to never forget that Jonny gives him this feeling, his pleasure.

“Jonny, Jonny,” Patrick pants, over and over, and the urgency in his voice provides a surge of  satisfaction that’s hotter than anything. When Patrick spills into his mouth, gasping and shaking, it feels like a triumph.

***

Despite everything good between them, Patrick’s departure becomes Jonny’s constant companion. Patrick is blithely oblivious, spending their days together chattering on about the hockey program over there, or campus life and parties. Jonny bears it stoically. He had known upon meeting Patrick that this thing they were doing had an expiration date. And that was just fine. Jonny knows about loss now, he can handle it.

But it’s when Patrick offhandedly suggests that Jonny look at schools in that area that throws him off-track.  

“You could study anatomy or something. Or maybe physical therapy or sports medicine. Dude, you could work at a hockey club as the doctor or something--wouldn’t that be fucking awesome? You’re so smart, you could totally get in somewhere good.”

They’re heading into the arena for a scrimmage, and Jonny feels a band of tension across his shoulders. It makes him jumpier than usual, more susceptible to flinching at loud noises, or getting annoyed when the guys horse around too much. Jonny’s energy must leak out or something because the game feels edgier than usual, filled with more checking and accidental slashes. He catches Patrick’s confused look as Jonny steals the puck on a breakaway, and when the D-men catch up to him he shoots it back to center.

It happens in an instant. A sudden scrum, somebody trips and a bunch of guys fall over and then Patrick shouts, loud and pained.

Jonny skates over and freezes because there’s blood, bright and red, coming from Patrick’s leg and one of the guys is frantically apologizing and Patrick is pale-faced and Jonny--

Jonny doesn’t realize he’s freaking out until he’s grabbed the guy and slammed him into the ice, snarling. Out of the corner of his eye he sees more blood and Patrick lets out a hoarse, “ _Shit_.” and Jonny can’t think. He feels himself being pulled off and he swings around, cursing and shoving until he can make it through the clump of bodies to Patrick’s side.

“Where is it?” He demands and Patrick pulls up his pants leg, to where there’s a vicious and angry-looking swipe across the vulnerable patch of skin between his shinbone and thigh. Someone’s skate must have ripped through the jersey, and Jonny can’t tell how deep the wound is but Patrick hisses when he tries to touch it.

They get Patrick to the hospital, and it’s a minor wound, really. He’ll need stitches but it’s not like he’ll never play hockey again. Accidents happen, Patrick reassures Jonny.

But Jonny feels like he’s on another planet. He keeps flashing to his own injury, and the heat and dirt and chaos and pain he felt, and it’s like he’s still there. He can’t move, he can’t even look at Patrick, but he follows him as closely as he can back to his house.

Patrick’s bedroom looks far too vulnerable, with windows open and several different points of entry. Without even knowing it, Jonny takes charge of securing the site, while Patrick looks on warily from his bed.

“Jonny, dude, you have to chill out. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

Jonny hears himself say something, gritting through his teeth, and Patrick’s face turns from confused to worried.

“Jonny, you need to calm down. You’re freaking out, and it’s freaking me out.”  

 “I can’t fucking calm down, Patrick. You didn’t even--it was like you weren’t even paying attention. If that blade had been an inch off it could’ve nicked an artery or something.”

“I’m telling you, it’s fine. I’m _fine_!” Patrick’s voice rises to meet Jonny’s, who falls his hands into fists and stomps over to the bed.

“Yeah, but what about when I’m not here and it’s suddenly not fine? You could get concussed, or break a leg or something. It’s not fucking safe!”

“It’s hockey,” Patrick shoots back, face red. “It’s a fucking sport and people get hurt all the time. It’s not going to fucking stop me playing or anything, and you are completely overeating right now.”

“You are playing a sport with fucking knives strapped to your feet! You’re barely six feet tall and like a hundred and seventy pounds. Who’s going to protect you out there, huh? Who’s going to make sure nothing worse happens to you?”

“That’s why they have rules, Jonny. And defensemen. And fuck you, I’m good at what I do, and I don’t go down lightly.”

“You don’t fucking know--”

“This isn’t the fucking army, Jonny!” Patrick shouts, and it silences both of them.

Jonny can feel his heart pounding, like he’s run a marathon. The adrenaline triggers something dark and angry, and he’s reminded of blood, so much blood.

“Jonny, I think....I think what happened fucked you up more than you’re admitting. You can’t--” Patrick breaks off, looking miserable.

“I can’t what?” He demands.

“You can’t pretend like everything’s fine, when it isn’t. I know that you’ve been miserable, and you can’t fight it all on your own.”

“I’m not.” Jonny snarls. “But what do you know about it? You don’t know shit, Patrick. About how it was over there. I don’t need you to save me, that’s not what I want from you.”

“You’re right, I don’t know what happened, but that’s only because you refuse to talk about it. I care about you, probably more than you know. And if you think leaving you doesn’t hurt, then you’re a fucking asshole. But I can’t go thinking you hate me, or that you’re going to go back to being that guy who didn’t even know how to smile.”

“Fuck you.” Jonny tells him. “I fucking let my team down over there. Some of my guys died, and I came back and I have this stupid fucking leg that constantly reminds me what a fuck up I am.”

“But you’re not! You lived, Jonny! You fucking survived and the guilt is eating you up! But you can’t use me to avoid your own problems. I can’t be your security blanket when you don’t want to have to think about the bad shit that’s happened to you. I can’t make it all go away. And you can’t punish me for leaving!”

“It’s not all about you, Patrick. You’re going to leave and remember me as some fuck up you screwed around with one summer. I have no fucking idea what’s going to happen to me. No fucking clue what I do next, cause I sure as shit ain’t going to be playing hockey with you. Not with this leg. So don’t go crying your eyes out over me.”

Patrick flings himself out of the bed, grimacing in pain, and shoves Jonny back. Jonny knows several ways to disarm an opponent, and could probably take Patrick down easily. But he lets himself be thrust back against the closed door and lets Patrick slam his mouth down on top of his.

It’s angry and mean and thrilling , and Jonny brings his arounds around Patrick clenching his fingers into blond curls, snarling against his lips. Patrick gives as good as he gets, putting his whole weight into keeping Jonny pinned against the door, his own hands grabbing onto Jonny’s hips and pulling them against his own, thrusting, panting harshly.

When it’s over, and Patrick has come with a strangled moan and Jonny has bitten into the meat of his shoulder with a furtive gasp, they can’t meet each others’ gaze.

Jonny feels drained and empty as he looks down at Patrick’s messy floor. Some loose piles of sweaters, jeans and Tshirts indicate where Patrick’s started packing. He needs to get out of here.

“Jonny...” Patrick sounds slightly hoarse, and Jonny can’t take his usual satisfaction from it. It’s probably the last time he’ll say his name and Jonny can’t. He just can’t.

So he turns and walks out the door, down the stairs and past Jackie, who’s staring shocked from the kitchen, and out of Patrick’s life for good.

***

His mother’s at home, when Jonny gets back. A mug of tea cools on the table and when she sees Jonny’s face, her brows crease in concern.

“Jonny, what’s wrong?”

“Did you resent me for leaving?” Jonny asks, startling himself with the question.

His mom looks taken aback, eyes wide. “No, of course not. It’s what you wanted, I knew that from a young age.”

“But you knew I’d be in danger. You knew there was a chance, even a small change, that I wouldn’t come back.”

Tears gather at the corner of her eyes and Jonny feels pathetic. What kind of son makes his mother cry?

“Yes, we did know. Every day you were gone I was scared. I used to dread getting phone calls, thinking it would be someone with bad news about you. But I am a mother, Jonny. We never stop worrying. Even when you went so far...”

Jonny sits down next to her, taking her hand in his. He feels numb, like his encounter with Patrick is some far distant thing that didn’t just happen.

“I’m sorry, _maman_.

She hiccups, wiping her nose with a napkin before squeezing his hand. “I am more sorry for you, Jonathan. I know you’re hurting, and I don’t know how to help you. All I want is for you to get better.”

Jonny wants that too. But he doesn’t know how to even begin. The things he wanted, the goals he had are dust now, swept up by the desert wind and far away. What he has now is diluted with regret and bitterness and the one good thing he found amongst all of that is leaving and won’t return.

They sit in silence for a while, and Jonny ponders his future.

***

It’s barely dawn. The sky is still dark enough that it casts a haunting glow over the trail that Jonny takes, familiar enough that he doesn’t need to see well to run it. Last night, the nightmares had returned, filled with noise and chaos and an overwhelming sense of anger and rage and loneliness that had nearly paralyzed him. Jonny wonders if it’ll ever go away. He wonders if Patrick really was a flimsy bandaid, and all of that was just lingering under the surface flesh, infecting his blood and waiting to poison the rest of him.

If this is to be his life now, it seems unbearable.

But Jonny has never been a quitter. So he runs, and he tries to bury everything away. Patrick is leaving tomorrow, and Jonny will never see him again. Maybe he’ll catch him on TV someday, playing winger to some asshole and making millions and lighting up an arena. Jonny thinks that could be enough.  And eventually the hurt of that separation would become numb, like everything else.

All he can hear is the pounding of his own feet against the gravel, and the gentle cooing of birds just waking up.

And then he hears something else. Another pair of feet, rhythmically tapping behind him. Jonny swings around and it’s Patrick, face set in a determined scowl.

“Hey, asshole.” He calls and stops a foot away from Jonny. He’s wearing shorts and Jonny’s eyes drop down to the slender red line of a wound wrapped along his lower leg, stitched together and covered with some bandaids. Jonny notes, as if from far away,  that it’s almost in the exact same place as his own scar.

He can’t think of anything else to say back, except, “Hey.”

Patrick scoffs, rolling his eyes. “That’s all you can say to me?”

Jonny’s silent.

“I knew you’d be out here running yourself into the ground. It’s like you’re purposely trying to injure yourself. Not cool, bro.” Now it’s Patrick’s turn to fall silent, and Jonny wonders if they’ll just end up standing there for the rest of the day, each not willing to speak first. It’d be worth it, just to stare at Patrick some more, before he leaves forever.

But Patrick is braver in ways that Jonny’s never been. Because he steps forward and places his hand on Jonny’s shoulder, curling around the muscle and looking into his eyes.

“Do you remember the first time we met each other? At my parent’s store?”

Jonny nods, voice caught in his throat.

“That’s not the first time I ever saw you. I noticed you about a week before that, sitting by the edge of the lake. I drove by, and you must have been out of it or something, cause you didn’t even look up. But I remember seeing your face for like a split second and you were probably the most miserable looking human being I’d ever seen.”

Patrick breaks off, pauses and swallows, casting his eyes to the side before continuing, “I remember thinking, ‘what’s that guy’s deal?’ Cause you looked like nothing would ever make you smile again. And then I heard that you’d been in the army and had been sent back, and I just...I just wanted to cheer you up, at first. That day, when we played behind the store. You looked like it was the first time you had enjoyed yourself in a while, and I just, I guess I kept wanting to see that part of you. And the thought of you going back to that kills me, Jonny. I can’t...not when you mean so much to me.”

Patrick’s face was made for bright smiles, cocky smirks, warm grins. To see him sad, so see him frown, causes something heavy to build in his chest.

And then Patrick looks stricken, and Jonny realizes it’s because tears have started streaming down his face. He hadn’t even cried when he woke up in the hospital. But now he is, and it’s as though the very realization triggers a deeper throb of emotion, and he’s sobbing, leaning his head against Patrick’s shoulder, hands gripping his shirt. Patrick wraps his arms around him in turn, speaking into the soft hairs at the nape of his neck.

“Please, Jonny, please don’t let this beat you.”

It feels like he’s fighting his way to the surface, able to see the sun and feel the breeze on his face after a long time underwater. “I don’t want it to” he gasps into Patrick’s neck, feeling him relax against him.

Patrick’s voice, low and intense: “Before I met you, I thought of my future and I saw myself playing hockey, being a star and that was it, nothing else. But then I met you, and when I think about my life, years from now, you’re there Jonny. And you’re whole, and you’re healthy, and you’re happy. And I want that, more than anything.”

Jonny hadn’t thought beyond the summer. Just existing, day after day, was enough for him. His grief, his mangled memories and pain, had been its own kind of sustenance. It would be penitence for not being better, for not being there with his team when it counted.

But then he met Patrick, and he can see now how it would tarnish everything he’s ever believed in, everything he’s ever worked for, to let himself down like that. To let down his family and friends, and most of all Patrick, who saw something in him from day one and wanted to help.

He wants to be better, wants to get better. For himself, he realizes. He wants to be this person that Patrick can believe in, that his family can be proud of, but most of all he wants to feel right in his own skin once more. He wants to know that when he marches towards the future, it’s with confidence and courage. He thought those things were lost, but they were still there, within him, all along.

When he kisses Patrick, he feels like it’s the start of summer all over again: full of possibility and he finally feels like he’s ready to meet it.

***

Patrick leaves on a Sunday.

They kiss, a lingering one, full of things still needed to be communicated. But Jonny’s not worried. This isn’t goodbye. The next time Jonny drives down to Amherst, or Patrick visits him in Buffalo, he’ll have more things to say. And more for the next time. He’s going to start seeing a therapist next week, and will enroll in classes at the community college, and is going to volunteer part-time at the local animal shelter. There will be plenty of things to tell Patrick, when they see each other next.

That’s what Jonny knows.

****  
  


Look, we are losing ourselves

to the waves. Faltering after it. Claiming or trying to reclaim

the inventions. Wishing for, naming the magic away.

Tell me, what fissures, what twinkling dimples of light

came spiraling out of your face? As the cries

of the fairgoers danced on the water,

and the actor who played Jesse James for the weekend

went down to the beer tent, took off his holster,

his button-up chaps, his handgun that only

shot blanks, and danced to the fiddle and lap-steel guitar,

to the rhythmless crowd, and the hollowed-out sound of the bullet

that still seemed to ring in the streets, that will ring there forever,

in the unopened vault, in the scattered remains of an ear.

 


End file.
